Lilac and Ivory
by georgethomas1
Summary: Raising a teenager is hard work - especially for a pathologist and a consulting detective. Abigail Holmes and her best friend Agatha Watson have been playing up at school and Molly Hooper sentences them to a weekend's worth of cleaning. That is when they begin to uncover the truth and mysteries begin to unfold.
1. Chapter 1

"You got in trouble again, Abigail?" Molly Hooper sighed, "What did you do?" The girl stifled a yawn as if she was bored.

"I told the teacher it was impossible to melt a human body in hydrofluoric acid without polyethylene plastic." Sherlock had brought the paper closer to his face. He was laughing. His daughter was on the verge of expulsion and he was laughing. With a sigh, Molly stood up from her chair.

"Go to your room; we'll talk about this tomorrow." She had to deal with Sherlock first. Sometimes, it was like living with two teenagers instead of one. Once Abigail went upstairs, Molly approached her partner.

"Sherlock, you're really not helping with Abigail's behavioral problems..." Sherlock put down his paper, lay back on his couch and stared at the ceiling.

"Well, she's right. Without polyethylene... What are they teaching today?" Molly just shook her head. There was no point arguing with that man. He refused to back down and he was always right... Except for when it came to being human. Instead, Molly just told him with thin patience,

"We're going to see the principal about her tomorrow." Leaving on that note, Molly retreated to her bed. That was the only way she could get Sherlock to do anything; by not giving him a chance to argue. She worried for Abigail. Sure, she was like herself but she was more like Sherlock and despite how much she loved him, that prospect frightened her.

Pathology was, according to some, a very depressing job but not for Molly. It had its perks and leaving early, although a rarity, was one of them. She thought she would get to the school and deal with Abigail without Sherlock, against the initial notion that they were going to deal with it together.

Today, Mary Watson and her coordinated to find John and Sherlock a case so they didn't go off the rails. Mary did the persuading while Molly picked a case. Naturally, Molly picked a case that she knew Sherlock would be too intrigued to walk away from. She really did know how to manipulate him to her advantage but it was in a different way but then, everything with Sherlock Holmes was different.

As Molly stepped onto the street where she parked her car, she was almost blinded by the light. It had been a long time since she had finished at four in the afternoon. Climbing into her car, she freshened up her lipstick and then began to drive towards the school, where she told her obstinate teenager to wait.

London was always so busy with its buses and cabs and getting to the school was almost impossible. The operative word being almost. When Molly finally got there, she saw a familiar car. Mary was here. Something must have happened with Agatha too.

The principal's office made Molly feel a tad underdressed. It was a beige room with blue paintings and lovely green plants on either side of the door frame. As Molly approached a chair, Abigail came up the stairs and avoided her mother's eyes. Silently, Abigail took a seat beside her mother and let her brown hair out of its hair tie, draping a curtain so the two would be unable to make eye contact at all.

"I'm very disappointed in you, Agatha." Mary told her daughter sternly before shooting a sympathetic look towards Molly on the way out. Mary was usually a patient woman; she was friends with Sherlock for god's sake, but today, she seemed out of that precious patience. That meant one of two things; what Agatha did was completely idiotic or the principal was brilliant at playing things up. Inhaling deeply, Molly stood up and walked into see the principal with Abigail close behind.


	2. Chapter 2

"Are we going to start without Mr. Holmes?" The principal asked, looking up from his file at Molly.

"He's working late," Molly told him a little too quickly. Eyeing her suspiciously, the principal raised an eyebrow. "He's..." Molly thought she had better stop trying to talk before she said the wrong thing.

"Abigail, I've had complaints from a number of teachers that you are..." He searched through his file on his desk, "A nuisance," suddenly, the principal's phone beeped and he received a message, 'Wrong!' The principal ignored it and continued with his list, "A menace who undermines everyone else," Another beep. Molly buried her head in her hands. _Sherlock Holmes, what are you doing?_ Her exasperation at Sherlock's flair for the dramatic must have become evident because the man grew smug as he read the last thing. "One of the teachers said she doesn't find it appropriate for you to correct them. They are teaching the right material." One more message and he glared at Abigail. "Stop that," he hissed at her as the door handle twisted and the door opened.

"Conrad Downs," Molly had absolutely no idea where Sherlock came from or how he arrived but there he was; in his slacks and his heavy coat with the collar turned up and his blue scarf. The principal looked uncomfortable, almost intimidated by the man with the sharp features. "A father of two and a half it would seem judging by the bags under your eyes," Molly missed that the first time and just assumed it was to do with being a principal. "You get migraines," Sherlock looked towards a silver photo frame with a sheet of pills camouflaged with it. "You've been to the doctor recently because they are antibiotics not aspirin. These aren't just any migraines, are they?" Sherlock looked at him in the eyes directly, "A brain tumour; how unfortunate." Downs didn't move or speak. "Treatment must cost a lot, these days, wouldn't you say?" The man nodded and Sherlock smiled, "Unattainable for someone who chooses to, say, expel six thousand pounds annually..." The man sat and Molly and the two Holmes' watched as he calculated. "Abigail stays in school." He told the man gravely as he gestured for Abigail to follow him out.

The drive home was silent, which was a little strange. Molly always felt the need to make conversation when Sherlock was around. She didn't know why; it just seemed like a prerequisite. On the way home, Molly ordered takeout but of course, Sherlock ate nothing. _It's_ _not Wednesday yet_, had been his reasoning. Of course, Molly shook her head and rolled her eyes. His eating habits were more sporadic than Abigail's. It was yet another cause for Molly's concern about the Holmes'.

Tension was thick in the Hooper-Holmes household tonight and the mild breeze of the suburbs was colder. Abigail could tell when her mother wanted to argue with Sherlock and so, without question, she disappeared upstairs. That was one way to avoid a lecture - by giving it to your dad to sit through. Upstairs, she would have the freedom to ask Agatha Watsons if her mother cleared her name. It wasn't _her_ fault the teacher was creepy and hitting on her; he needed a good old-fashioned punch in the face.

It was downstairs, however, where the real drama was about to start.

"Sherlock, what was that?" No other words could find her. Sherlock's display had been... Something else. She had thought it had something to do with one of Sherlock's previous clients. He seemed more willing to resort to their methods instead of his own. He was acting stranger than normal, which was saying something for her dear Sherlock.

"That was exploiting the fact that the principal is terminally ill to keep our daughter in school. Problem?" He closed the door to the bathroom before Molly had a chance to respond. Following him, she stormed in there.

"Yes, it's a problem, Sherlock. Abigail won't have you to fight her battles for her her whole life and you need to stop abusing the beautiful gifts you were born with by getting your daughter out of facing consequences." Sherlock looked perplexed as he began to unbutton his shirt. Trying not to let that distract her from being angry, she folded her arms. She couldn't back down. This was a serious problem that had to be addressed.

The two were both as stubborn as each other and Molly knew when she was beat. This was not one of those times. It was agreed that Abigail had clean the house until it was spotless... Agreed wasn't exactly the word for it. Molly had basically told Sherlock that was how they were going to deal with it. Molly texted and told Mary the verdict.

Abby is going to clean the house -MH

How long are you going to torture the girl? -MW

P.S. Can Agatha join her? -MW

Molly was reluctant about that. They were both incorrigible and stubborn but then so was the state Sherlock always left the house in.

Sure :) -MH


	3. Chapter 3

Abigail Holmes thought it was cruel to make her clean her room but the whole house was just barbaric. There were much better ways to spend her weekend.

Agatha Watson showed up at her house just before her mother left for work.

"Spotless," Molly iterated for what seemed like the one hundredth time. "When your father wakes up, tell him Mary and John are coming over for dinner tonight." Abigail forgot that her father was more of a teenager than she was sometimes. Nodding, she said goodbye to Molly and walked into the living room. Where would they start?

Agatha decided to busy herself in the kitchen. Abigail looked at her questioningly.

"You've got to start somewhere, right?" The Watson girl began to clear the table. It was full of takeout bags and strange translucent liquids but that didn't seem to phase her. Agatha had quite a strong stomach except when she saw dead bodies...

"Oh, Agatha, be careful in the fridge; there's a couple of..." Before Abigail could finish her warning, Agatha screamed. The high pitched sound was an assault on her ears as she wondered about her sleeping father. If he was still asleep before, he wasn't anymore. "Maybe I should deal with the fridge," Abigail muttered, gesturing Agatha to the bench top. There were a few thumbs and a jar full of human eyes - nothing too outrageous; well, not for Sherlock Holmes.

The kitchen was cleaned but they hadn't started anything else. It had nearly been two hours.

"Your mum is pretty clean most of the time," Agatha observed as the cat circled her feet upon her exit from cleaning the bathroom, "It's you and your dad that make all the mess."

"It's not mess; it's thoroughly calculated chaos." Abigail laughed as she walked into Sherlock's room with a washing basket but Sherlock had gone. He wasn't in his bed and he certainly wasn't out in the kitchen. Deciding he must have gone out the back door, Abigail shrugged and scoped the floor for dirty clothes. Nothing particular caught her eye except a purple scarf. It had blood stains on it and naturally, there was no way Sherlock would wash it, so Agatha collected it and went into her own room. That was the real task. She came out of the room and carried the basket downstairs, where Agatha was about to make herself comfortable in what used to be John Watson's chair.

Eager to join her friend, Abigail put the washing on and went and sat in Sherlock's chair as they began to sort through the clutter.

"Sherlock did something to Downey," Abigail mused, "But it wasn't his... I don't know; style. It was more..." She trailed off before she could get too lost in thought. "Are you even allowed back at school?" Agatha just shook her head.

"I've been suspended. But come on! All I did was make his nose bleed! It wasn't like I broke his nose." She continued muttering things like maybe she should have. "Sherlock left in a hurry this morning; he didn't even take his coat." Abigail's eyes grew incredulous. He never went anywhere without that coat. Where could he have gone that would be so important that he'd forget his trademark clothing item. There was only one possibility.

"Someone took him to Mycroft." Agatha just shrugged. She'd been best friends with Abigail Holmes long enough to just go with it for no particular reason.

"Yeah he was wearing a kimono of sorts when he came out." Instantly, Abigail blushed and buried her head in her hands.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," Agatha just laughed and made a joke about how attractive her dad was. They dissolved into a fit of laughter as they put books back on the shelf and then there was a sound. It was a woman moaning erotically. Instantly, Agatha looked to her friend.

"My god; what was that?"

"Not me, I swear." Abigail turned to the back of the chair where Sherlock's coat hung and put a hand in the pocket. His phone had lit up and so she took it out.

"Abby, is that your dad's?" Agatha asked, walking over to investigate.

"Yeah, it's dad's alright." Abigail didn't call him dad to his face but when she was around others, she did. He told her it was just stupid nickname invented for babies so that they could identify their caregivers. It was locked which was weird; it never used to have a lock. There were three attempts allowed at opening it and Abigail wracked her mind for them as they stacked the books and tidied the cushions up.

"Sherlock is smart so he would make it something important to him..." Abigail began to think. Birthdays meant nothing to him and neither did computer binary code, so that narrowed down the possibilities. Sherlock didn't really have many things that were important to him. He had four friends, a partner and a child. She tried her own name first. Abby. Wrong. She would mull over the fact that he didn't think her important later. Right now, she had to focus on getting the code.

"I thought Sherlock didn't believe in love," Agatha wondered aloud. After eliminating the possible codes, there was only one left.

J O H N.

"No but sentiment gets the better of everyone once and a while, including Sherlock Holmes." The phone simply read: New Message (1) The Woman. Abigail opened it. Hello, Mr. Holmes. Let's have dinner.

"Do you think he's having an affair?" Agatha asked incredulously.

"Ag, he can barely stand a relationship with my mother much less two women." Agatha had to give her that. An affair would be the conclusion an idiot would jump to, in Abigail's mind, not that she was calling Agatha an idiot. "Who are you...?" She murmured to herself. "Watson, we have some investigating to do. The game is on."


	4. Chapter 4

Naturally, Abigail's way of investigating required a lot less physical effort than Sherlock's. Agatha knew just what do to. Quickly, she rushed to the phone and called house cleaners. That would be how this would be done. Abigail got her laptop out and began to inquire about this mysterious woman. She didn't have much to go on, except for the fact that she was named 'The Woman.' It turned out that was all she needed. The Woman was a dominatrix who provided recreational scolding.  
"Your dad is kinky," Agatha laughed and Abigail just punched her in the arm. Despite having this evidence in front of her, she couldn't help but think there was more to it. Before she'd turned ten, he had drummed into her that it was completely idiotic to theorise based on little or no evidence. There was really only one way to find out. Abigail grabbed the phone and began to respond to the woman. _Okay -SH_ was all she wrote. It wasn't until three that she replied. She had texted the name of the place and the time. Abigail had five hours to get ready and as the housekeepers left, one of them prompted Abigail that they left the washing in the machine because they had another job to tend to after this one that ended at four as per Agatha Watson's specifications. Remembering that she had put the washing in hours ago, Abigail rushed to the laundry.

She took out the washing and at the top was something that made her feel a little ill to think about. There, on the top of the laundry, was a scarf except it wasn't the blood-stained scarf she had taken from Sherlock's room. This scarf was a plain lilac scarf and it was blatantly staring at her in the face. She had ruined one of her dad's favourite scarfs and there was no way she could emotionally blackmail Sherlock because he was Sherlock and that just didn't happen. There was really only one person that could make Sherlock do anything and that was Molly Hooper and she wouldn't approve of that. There was only one solution and that was to try and pass it off like it was no big deal but she knew how fashion-conscious her dad was despite his supposed indifference and that made this much worse. She would have to grin and bear it.

Folding all of the washing, Agatha discounted them to each person's room and made sure that if she was going to be blatant about Sherlock's new improved lilac scarf, she would make it painfully obvious. Laying it across his pillow, she opened his bedside drawer to find a pen and there was something there that she was not expecting. He had a riding crop. Without trying to go back to Agatha's previous comment about how her dad was kinky, she wondered why he would have it. He could have had it to check for bruises at the morgue to see what kind of bruises such things could form but that was unlikely. Normally, he would just shoot his gun at the wall in the garage. That was the only place Molly allowed him to have an outlet. Trying not to think any more of it, she pushed it aside and found a pen. With it, she wrote: _Thought you could do with a splash lilac. Love Abigail._

By the time Abigail got back into the living room, the house was literally spotless. That was one thing off the list. Now, they had to distract their parents enough tonight so that they wouldn't realise that the two of them were going out to investigate a curious case of Sherlock's past. Sherlock would be onto them the moment they did something that was not minimal. That was the problem when the world's most observant man was your father. He knew what you were up to before you even knew and that was the one thing that really threw Abigail. She just had to manipulate Molly and that would settle the score and that would be easy enough to do. She could play Molly better than her father could play chess and that was certainly saying something.

The two teenagers devised a plan, wherein they spoke for half an hour about random teenage things and recorded it so that when Molly knocked on the door to check if they were okay, it would just be an audio recording and she would think nothing of it. It wasn't the most cunning or Machiavellian of plans but it was enough to fool Molly or even John who always wanted to think the best of their children. Mary and Sherlock were faster though but they respected that they had lives so they would not want to check on them at all. That was what made this plan infallible.

It wasn't until Molly came home that the plan would be set into motion.


	5. Chapter 5

It was almost dark outside by the time Molly got home and there was perfect silence in the Hooper-Holmes household. Upstairs, Agatha Watson and Abigail Holmes continued plotting what they would say to their parents as they made their way out of the window at eight-o'clock. To the untrained eye, it looked like they were talking about boys or even books they had read as they were sprawled all over the floor and looked very un-motivated to do anything.  
"Girls," Molly's high pitched voice chimed as she called from downstairs. She almost sounded surprised that they managed to clean the entire house. Abigail walked downstairs casually and worked on Molly. Manipulation really was her strong point when it came to getting her own way but then, it ran in her family. Her uncle Mycroft was good at it too, apparently. She had only ever spoken to Mycroft once and that was because it was his partner's birthday and he wanted to meet the famous spawn of Sherlock Holmes. Naturally, Greg Lestrade didn't say that in so many words but judging by the way he was so incredulous, it was what he had been waiting for. Mycroft was never a very festive person from what Abigail could gather. All he did was pretend he was interested in the small talk Lestrade seemed to be so adamant on making with his friends John and Mary.  
"Hey, mum," Abigail began, "What's up?" Abigail wondered to the fridge and got out two apples for her and Agatha.  
"How did you… Never mind," she sounded a little flustered as she looked around for Toby the cat. "Hey, did you tell Sherlock about tonight?"  
"Yeah about that…"  
"_Abigail_," Molly pressed impatiently, "What happened to your father?"  
"He kind of… Sort of got taken by Mycroft and his goons." Molly shook her head and rolled her eyes.  
"Of course he did," she almost whispered and then she almost looked frustrated. "Why can't Mycroft just… Phone him or something?!"  
"Tell me about it," Abigail sighed as she continued walking upstairs. "Oh and can Agatha and I get takeout so you adults don't bore us to death?"  
"There's some leftovers in the fridge…" She trailed off as she walked into her room. That was part one done and dusted. Now, part two was the harder part.

Agatha and Abigail ate their apples as they contemplated on meeting the woman. Abigail wouldn't introduce herself as Sherlock's daughter outright. She would have to use an alias. Kate seemed like a logical choice. It was a common English girls' name from the eighties. The Woman looked to be born in the eighties. Once 'Kate' was introduced, she would pose as a P.A. of an interested party before asking her why she was dining alone. It sounded absolutely terrible in theory when Abigail tried to verbalise it to Agatha but she knew it would be better put into practice.

One of the most important things to consider was the disguise. If Abigail didn't have the correct guise, she could blow the whole operation. Luckily, Agatha Watson was something of a master of disguise. She didn't know why; she had a knack for it. Maybe it was inherited. They curled Abigail's hair and put a shade of blood lipstick on her and Agatha made sure her makeup made her look older and more sophisticated after the two of them dug around her drawers and wardrobe to find something elegant. She pulled out a black dress she didn't even know she had and it made her look at least twenty-three. Looking in the mirror though, Abigail saw something she never realised. She looked exactly like her father in some respects. Her eyes were two colours, flicking between a turquoise green to a deep ocean blue and her cheekbones were sharp but that was where the similarities stopped. Her mother shone through too; her complexion and her hair had never looked more like Molly Hooper than they did tonight and she wondered why that was. Agatha put the recording on pause and then there was a knock at the door. John and Mary were right on time.  
"Agatha!" John called and as Agatha walked to the door, Abigail told her a story to tell them both.  
"Hey," she smiled, "Sherlock is sort of with Mycroft right now." John rolled his eyes and thought he'd make himself at home.  
"I can wait," Mary looked at her husband with contempt.  
"We're going to look for him." She got her handbag and pulled John out of his chair and almost stormed off towards the car. Well, if they were all out looking for Sherlock that meant part two of the plan was executed without Abigail needing to resort to the recording. As soon John and Mary were out of sight, Abigail and Agatha set off to join the Woman at the restaurant.


	6. Chapter 6

In a suave part of England, there stood a restaurant obscure to anyone short of currency. This woman was classy it would seem. 'Kate' entered the restaurant with Agatha close behind her, acting as her protégé. They scoured the restaurant and it was a very methodical set up. The round tables were draped with white tablecloths with embroidered patterns and each couple sat directly opposite each other, gushing over each other and staring adoringly. It made Abigail feel a little uncomfortable. It was Agatha that spotted the Woman.

At a table sat a woman alone with ebony hair done in victory rolls and wearing a lace dress that barely left anything to the imagination. She did not look unhappy like one normally would if a date stood them up. Instead, she looked content as if eating alone was her true intention. This woman, Abigail thought, has quite the aura of self confidence; she practically sweats it out. That meant she would be a dangerous woman to cross. Nonetheless, Abigail's inquisitiveness got the better of her and she continued towards the mysterious woman from her father's past. Pulling up a seat, Abigail tried to deduce her the way her father would but nothing gave her away, not even her posture. It was alarming how bad she was at this despite all of those nights at the dinner table when they sat directly across from each other, deducing their thoughts, their actions, their emotions.

"Excuse me, ma'am," 'Kate' began in a hushed town, "Are you the one they call the Woman?" Abigail watched her face as she started to reply, looking for any possible sign whether it be uncertainty or even a twitch of her eyebrow but again, there was nothing.

"My name is Irene Adler," The Woman stared intensely at her and awaited her introduction.

"Kate Lestrade," Abigail hated using her uncle's last name as an alias but it was all she could think of in that moment. "I represent a..." Before she finished her official sounding cover story, Irene Adler was laughing under her breath. "Miss. Adler?"

"I told a friend of mine once that a disguise is always a self portrait." She poured champagne into the crystal wine glass and drank.

"You think I am elegant and sophisticated?" There was no point in trying to keep the disguise now.

"No, I think you are a teenager who tries to be more mature than she is." That was when Irene's eyes widened. The Woman noticed something. It was time to abort this mission. None of it was going to plan.

"I know about Sherlock Holmes," Abigail whispered, uncertain of what she was going to say next. Irene Adler laughed at Abigail's statement and focused on Abigail's features. Abigail could see recognition growing in her blue eyes. She could see Sherlock in her. That must have meant he meant a great deal to her. Maybe she was even in love with him. Sherlock never mentioned her and her name was saved as her 'professional' name on his phone. Was her love unrequited or was it double sided? She would never know because she had to blow this joint pronto.

"Tell daddy his favourite dominatrix sends her love. It's always a pleasure to meet a Holmes and... A Watson, I presume?" She asked, looking over at Agatha who joined them as soon as the façade fell to pieces. Solemnly, Agatha nodded and Irene simply smiled. "My, my, Miss. Holmes; what are we going to do with you?" Unsure how to respond, Abigail just wanted to go for the prize now. Raising an eyebrow, she looked at her in the eyes.

"You tell me." With a laugh, Irene leaned back in her chair and smiled.

"I could drop you home to mummy and daddy..." Abigail picked up the bottle of champagne.

"Or I could pour you another drink and you can tell me about Sherlock Holmes." Impressed by her own retort, Abigail kept a determined and straight face while she waited for Irene Adler to make her decision. "I'll make it worth your while," Abigail added slowly, wondering just how she would do that. What could a teenage girl give a woman who had everything? Unless, of course, it was something to do with Sherlock Holmes...

"Pour me that glass."


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft had been tiptoeing around the issue all day and that was something Sherlock detested in his brother. It wasn't like he was going to be compromised just because Irene Adler was alive and well and back in London. That much was obvious. What weren't so obvious were Mycroft's intentions. Normally, Sherlock could read Mycroft like a children's book – without any hesitation, precisely and accurately – but today, there was something off about it. At first, Sherlock had thought it an experiment to see if sentiment still got in the way of cases where she was concerned but that was unlikely, since he knew that Sherlock had recently been letting his emotions show more than usual. Focusing more intently on his brother, Sherlock squinted to see what the 'ice man' was trying to accomplish.  
"You are insistent on that sheet of yours," Mycroft rolled his eyes as one of the cleaners came and placed it in Sherlock's arms.  
"You are insistent in bringing me to deal with trivial cases concerning a certain female dominatrix. Now, what is it you want?" The person whose name meant nothing to Sherlock looked to Mycroft.  
"Might I have a word with my brother?" Mycroft asked diplomatically and the man nodded and walked out of the room sceptically. Because the man had to leave the room, this definitely had something to do with a particularly dangerous person – someone like James Moriarty.  
"My good friends," Mycroft started but Sherlock scoffed at the word. The only 'friend' his brother had was Lestrade and even then, what they had wasn't exactly friendship. "At the British government have received intelligence that a certain…" Sherlock shot his brother a look that told him to stop tiptoeing around the issue. "Apparently, an old friend of yours is in London. I say friend." Sherlock deciphered whom he meant in three seconds but he did not want to believe it. James Moriarty was dead, well and truly. He and his partner had dismantled his network singlehandedly, making sure each one of his associates were dealt with. They had almost dealt with an ancient crime syndicate. It was because of the disbanding of the network that Sherlock was able to have the life he did with Molly and Abigail, even though he was afraid of getting too close. Now that he was too close, he had too much to lose. "I'm happy to put your daughter and your… Pet into witness protection…" Sherlock shook his head instantly. He couldn't do that. They could handle themselves and after what he did to John all of those years ago, he didn't know if he wanted to deal with a heartbroken person again. They were too much work.  
"They will be fine. Now, what do you think Moriarty wants?" Sherlock knew the answer was obvious but it was news to him that Moriarty had returned, so what else was the government withholding.  
"What he always wants, Sherlock," Mycroft shook his head and buried his forehead in his hand, "A distraction, probably. London needs you." Sherlock smiled at that. As a child, Mycroft always told him that he was an idiot; that he was the stupid one, but now, it seemed the tables were turned and London was looking to Sherlock Holmes as opposed to the heart of the British government, the man named Mycroft Holmes.  
"I'll take the case." Sherlock almost yawned as he spoke, signalling to his brother that he was tired and bored.

Suddenly, they heard struggling footsteps entering the palace.  
"Ma'am, you are not authorised to…" Sherlock and Mycroft could have sworn they saw the steam exploding from Molly Hooper's ears as she stormed into the foyer where they were standing. It always made Sherlock feel a little uneasy. An angry Molly was a frightening Molly and somebody messed with her dinner plans.  
"Mycroft!" She exclaimed, sauntering up towards the eldest Holmes brother. "How dare you…"  
"Ah, Miss. Hooper, always a pleasure," Mycroft began, ever the diplomat. "Apologies," he nodded towards her and then bade them good evening as he walked out of the room. Glaring daggers at him, Molly walked up to Sherlock.  
"We were supposed to have dinner with John and Mary…" She began to chastise him but Sherlock did not want to have to listen to Molly's boring spiel and so instead, he kissed her. He figured her out over these last few years; he'd known her the longest out of all of the people he knew and trusted, so she was like an open book, one that he enjoyed ready. He really cared about Molly, despite his trying to push it down and there was nothing he wouldn't do for her. Unable to express that in words, he poured it into his kiss and she reciprocated and seized his sharp jawline. Although he knew he wasn't off the hook completely, Sherlock and Molly both got into the car without needing to say another word to each other and drove back to the house.

Their dinner party was still on, apparently.


	8. Chapter 8

"Abigail's gone out, hasn't she?" Molly let out an exasperated sigh. Sometimes, there was no stopping her once she got an idea. She reminded Molly a lot of Sherlock when she went off at the most sporadic of times. "I think we should wait up for her." Sherlock said nothing in reply but nodded his head slightly. After Molly did all of the dishes and fed Toby, she joined Sherlock at the table, hoping to ask Sherlock how he thought the dinner party went despite knowing he would brush it off. Tonight was one of those nights when Sherlock looked upset about something when everyone else turned away. He always thought no-one would notice but Molly would. Molly Hooper always noticed. She had argued with herself for years, wondering if that made her insignificant or special. Right now, she hoped it was the latter. When Sherlock's eyes darted to his bookcase, she thought better of it. There was no way she would get through to him if he was not focused on his feelings. Nevertheless, she felt the need to make conversation.

"How are we going to deal with Abigail?" Sherlock was uninterested but he did reply, using words only sparingly.

"I will," his voice almost sounded cold and Molly worried about the approach he would take.

By the time Abigail Holmes walked in the door, it was nearing eleven. Molly watched her daughter's face go from satisfied to afraid in almost seconds as she joined them at the table. Nobody spoke and nobody moved.

They all sat at the table. No less than three feet separated father and daughter as they both sat, with their teal eyes boring into each others intrusively and their hands pressed together in an almost prayer-like way; fingertips just shy of their chins. They were deducing. Molly knew better than to disturb them. They could sit like that for hours.

And that was exactly what they did.

They had been sitting there, mirrors of each other, for three hours before Abigail broke the silence.

"What do you see?" She asked, not taking her eyes off him.

"I see you," Sherlock told her. "Abigail Holmes."

"No, Sherlock. What do you see?" That would have confused someone else but not him.

"I see you; a person with a vast intellect that keeps isolated from a number of people because of it. You only have a handful of friends whom you trust completely, one of which you would do anything for - even kill for." Sherlock looked into her eyes deeper. "You always want people to think you don't care and you are a master manipulator of emotions because you know how people think and feel. You can feel but you choose not to so you don't get hurt."

"Stop," Abigail told him sternly.

"I'm almost done. You aren't close to..."

"Sherlock Holmes, stop speaking right this instant." In that moment, Abigail sounded like her mother but it got Sherlock's attention. Before she spoke, she got up from her chair and from a cupboard under the stairs, she got a mirror.

Holding the mirror towards Sherlock, she watched as he began to look perplexed.

"Now, what do you see?" Sherlock nodded slowly, beginning to see where this was going.

"A high functioning sociopath," He answered with strong certainty. At his answer, Abigail shook her head and slid the mirror across the table to him.

"That's not what's there. You see but you do not observe. I see someone who is scared. I see someone who feels a lot more than he wants to but he doesn't let himself because he doesn't want to hurt again." Sherlock stayed silent. "What happened to you, dad?" Her voice was a whisper as she called him the name he so blatantly hated. She knew her father well enough to know that what made him the way he was was his own decision. She just couldn't put her finger on why.

"Go," he told her angrily. Doing as she bid, Abigail stood up from her chair and on the way upstairs, she put her hand on his shoulder almost as angrily as he spoke.

"You aren't a sociopath and you are most certainly not high functioning." Sherlock Holmes was stunned. "You chose to switch off your emotions so you don't hurt anymore. You saw yourself in me which is why you were slow to analyse me..."

"Alright, Abigail, I think it's time you go to bed." Molly interjected but nobody really payed attention. As far as they were concerned, they were the only two in the room.

"I don't..." Sherlock began but he trailed off, shaking his head. Sherlock Holmes was speechless.

"I know about Redbeard." Sherlock froze at the name. "Mycroft told me everything." Abigail waited for Sherlock's reaction - an outburst or something but that didn't happen. Instead he watched the off television set as something like tears accumulated in his eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

Abigail hated how much that hurt her father but someone had to say it and Molly would never had done it. Tears were in her eyes as she slammed her door in a typical teenage fashion. She couldn't fathom why he would keep everything from her. What was he so afraid of? Everything Irene had said was consistent with her small conversations with Mycroft that were relatively under wraps. He let Mycroft see him for who he was and he let the Woman see but he wouldn't even consider telling his daughter. That was what confused her the most.

As the night grew into the liminal hours of the morning, Abigail tossed and turned in her bed. How could she sleep while her father was angry with her? That had never happened before and she had never felt more alone.

Before she could stew any further, she decided perhaps she should do something productive with her restlessness. Underneath her ever growing stack of disorganised papers was a science assignment. She never did any of them; they were basic elementary but for now, she simply wanted to busy herself. Slaving away, writing down the most tedious of observations, Abigail ended up having more fun than she anticipated and although her eyes were tired from tears, she had completed the whole assignment and the extra credit part with precision and doubtless accuracy before she lay down her head at three in the morning to sleep.

It wasn't until four in the afternoon that Abigail arose on that Sunday, apparently despite Molly's best efforts. When she got up, she did not want to get dressed. What was the point anyway? It wasn't like they were going anywhere.

"Oh, so you are alive," Molly smiled, as she saw Abigail emerge in the reflection of the mirror as she refreshed her lipstick. "I thought I was going to have to do a post-mortem." Abigail rolled her eyes and pulled her sheet closer to her, wearing it as a robe. Taking in what her mother looked like, it was hardly a difficult deduction that she was going out somewhere. Her hair was tied back out of her face and her lipstick new and fresh even though it had been applied twice... Three times and her skin was positively glowing and she wore new jeans and a black blazer as opposed to her pink and cream jumper.

"Where are you going?" Abigail asked with a yawn.

"You are coming too; we're going to your grandmother's birthday." Abigail rolled her eyes. If they were anything like Sherlock said they were, this was a total nightmare.

"Yes, cheerio, mother, I have an important science assignment I must do before tomorrow..." Molly shook her head and turned to her.

"You don't do science assignments. Now go and find something nice to wear." Unwilling to comply, Abigail just marched right up to her room, stopping on the staircase.

"Why are we doing this? We never do this." Molly put her hands on her hips and sighed.

"You sound exactly like your father; now, get _dressed_." Her tone was low, which marked the threatening transition between loving and awkward mother to fierce Amazonian warrior princess, as Abigail liked to call it whenever her mother implored her to do something. Knowing better to mess with a mad Molly Hooper, Abigail Holmes walked into her bedroom. She flung herself back on her bed as the falling sun shone through her window, refusing her any unnecessary sleep. The Holmes girl closed her eyes for a second before she heard intrusive banging on the door. There was just no winning when Molly had plans.

Somehow, Abigail ended up in a t-shirt and jeans, carrying a gift basket, sitting silently in the backseat of Molly's small car. Sherlock and Abigail had both tried to justify not bringing a gift but Molly simply wouldn't have it. Despite her contemporary choice of clothes and even houses, Molly Hooper was very old-fashioned. This was going to be humiliating; she felt like a child. She was bringing a wooden basket full of baked goods to her grandmother, all because Molly thought it would have been nice.

The drive to the small Holmes cottage was drenched in heavy silence from the tensions created the night before. Abigail could tell Sherlock had not forgiven her yet and it made her heart sink a little. Had she known he would be so affected, she would never have told him the truth so bluntly.

As they approached the small red house, Abigail saw nothing but a rural headache. There was a large paddock and a forest only a few feet away, made up of mostly pine and the occasional other species that were difficult to identify from so far away. Molly parked the car beside the driveway and they all got out, both Sherlock and Abigail unwillingly so. Despite her reluctance, Abigail led the two adults to the door. It wasn't that she found her grandparents unpleasant, it was more the fact that she didn't want to socialise today. She raised her hand to knock on the door but Sherlock's mother opened it before her hand collided with the wood.

Mrs. Holmes was always an exuberant woman; a genius and definitely someone with an admiration for frivolity. Inviting her family inside, the older woman ushered them into the living room and Abigail handed her the basket.  
"Abigail!" The white haired woman hugged her tightly, after setting the basket aside on the coffee table. "You've grown so much since I last saw you!" Abigail was waiting for her grandmother to stop fussing over her. It was _her_ birthday and she should be thinking about herself – like a normal person _but then, nothing about the Holmes family was normal_, Abigail sighed to herself. "I bought this for you." On the coffee table sat a red hooded coat that was the most beautiful piece of clothing Abigail had ever seen but she didn't let on at first. "I hope you like it." Abigail smiled at her Mrs. Holmes, from ear to ear.  
"I love it, Grandma."


	10. Chapter 10

As the night bore on, Abigail grew bored. There was nothing here that she hadn't figured out in only a few short minutes. Nothing except what was outside but naturally, she detested outside so that didn't count obviously. But it did count. It looked so mysterious outside as the sky grew darker and darker, turning from twilight into a harsh bluebell hue and as the wind picked up, sweeping over the grass like a razorblade scratching a table. Judging by the speed of the trees in the forest, Abigail could only guess that the cold southerly wind had generated a temperature that had to be, at most, eight degrees. That definitely meant she was not going outside. If it were up to her, she would have never have left her house.

After all of the frivolities with Mrs. Holmes receiving her gifts, Abigail couldn't take it anymore. Mycroft had gone home and although she had asked if he could take her, he had declined.

"I am going outside to try my new coat," she smiled sweetly at everyone while she spoke before picking her coat up off the coffee table.

"Take the basket back to the car too, Abby," Her grandfather instructed warmly as he continued the search for his glasses underneath the couch.

"It's such a shame Myc had to rush off." Grandma Holmes, as Abigail called her, was annoyed at her eldest son whom, she knew had feigned a government crisis just to get away. Leaving them to their business, Abigail took the basket and exited out the back door, shrugging into her new red coat.

When she got outside, the air was crisp and hit her like a slap in the face. Trying to ignore the cold, she pulled her hood up over her brown hair and began to walk into the forest. She wasn't exactly sure why she had wanted to go into the forest. It was possibly because it was the only part of the house that was new to her. It was something to do to quench that insatiable boredom and emptiness that she so frequently felt. _Curse being Sherlock Holmes' daughter_, she thought resentfully as her footsteps led her deep off into the nighttime. The ground was damp as she watched her Doc Martens accumulate with the stray leaves on the edge of the forest floor. Suddenly, the forest didn't look too appealing but the curiosity of it; the very fact that it was a forest placed sporadically in the middle of nowhere made it much more interesting.

As soon as she walked into the forest, she knew it was a mistake. All of the trees looked the same and by the time she had opted to turn back it was too late. She kept going around in circles and it was like the trees had grown around her and encased her in a cell. Theoretically, there were about eight solutions to her getting out of the forest. She could call for help but that would be illogical. No-one would be able to hear her through the walls. Another was that she could keep running, basket in hand until she reached the other end of the forest edge but she did not know where that led to. For all she knew, it could be a top secret military base where they genetically modified animals or even people but she knew not to get ahead of herself. That was highly unlikely, given the balance of probability, but the fact that she would have to go deeper into the forest to get out really alarmed her. After dismissing the remaining options, she decided she might have something buried away in that mind palace of hers. Ever since she was a girl, she had pleaded with her father to teach her the technique and even though she knew he was uncomfortable doing so, she had been taught well.

Her mind palace was the Inveraray Castle in Scotland. She had no idea why but it was just a beautiful place - one of her favourite pieces of architecture. She walked up the long drive way and into the foyer before going up the stairs, searching through her information. Opening drawers and pulling curtains frantically to search for information about how to get out of a forest, Abigail could see a figure materialising in the distance. Sherlock Holmes was standing three steps above her.  
"Abigail Holmes," he began, his deep voice echoing in the stone corridor, "Think." He sounded disdainful as he spoke but no less authoritative. He kept repeating it and Abigail thought harder and harder, wracking her mind for something that could help her. Like a sudden gust of wind, an idea came rushing to Abigail's head as her mind palace faded and she returned to the forest. All she had to do was call upon her internal compass. It was a technique her grandmother had taught her when she was a child. She only vaguely remembered it because it had been such a long time since she had stayed here last. Eight years old and lost, Abigail struggled to find her way back home after she had gone down to the river and upon her grandmother finding her, they sat down and Mrs. Holmes taught her how to navigate herself.

Just as she began to turn away to go back to the car, she heard something in the forest. It was a dark night now, so it was probably a nocturnal bird of sorts. Taking big strides, she felt a little feeling of panic arise in her. She was being watched by something. The atmosphere was too cruel to be that of a person. Perhaps it was a wolf... The very prospect made the girl in the red hood run faster until she hit something; another person.

In the bright light of the moonlight, she took a step back to see whom she was meant to apologise to. As the person smiled, recognition sparked in Abigail and her eyes widened. This was unexpected.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock was more bored than he had ever been and he knew this day would come so he had insisted that Abigail brought an extra coat to keep in the car and that wasn't out of concern for his daughter. It was out of concern for his sanity. He had planted his cigarettes in the lining of her coat, without her consent of course, so that he would always have his stash of gratification when situations became direly _cuddly_ at his house. No one would think of Molly as the culprit and as Sherlock expected, the coat had been in the car for quite some time.  
"I'm going to go and tell Abigail to make haste," Sherlock smiled at his family earnestly, "We can't have your only..." Sherlock struggled, limps compressed grimly, at the word 'grandchild'. He never really saw Abigail as a normal father would; he saw her as himself, which Sherlock hated. Abigail had been right. Abigail was what he would have been like if he had a balance between emotions and intellect but sentiment, he had once told someone he knew, was a chemical defect found on the losing side. It had been proven a weak point in the face of one's enemies. As he lit his cigarette and inhaled the nicotine, he felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. This vice made things seem at least bearable. It would take approximately forty-one more minutes for Molly to get bored with his parents.

In this distance, Sherlock heard the faintest scream that was shrill and piercing. At once, the cigarette slipped from his mouth and his body moved before him. Time started to slow. Running in the general direction, he deduced it to be Abigail, who was nowhere near the car after she'd said she would take the basket. His daughter, his only daughter was in danger. She knew how to defend herself but he still felt that annoyingly overwhelming urge to protect her. Four scenarios began to conjure in Sherlock's head, none of which were particularly favourable and so, he, now with frantic determination, picked up his speed.

Abigail was not the kind of person to scream if she saw a spider, wince at a scar, or cry at the sight of a dead body and so, someone must have caught her by surprise. But who would be lurking near the Holmes residence? Who would be so obsessed with the Holmes family that they would know every last detail? He had stopped being the hat detective after Moriarty's network was fully dismantled. The press died down after that and he was a forgotten name in the world again, which suited him just fine. That meant that when Abigail was born, only a handful of people knew about it and stranger still, Sherlock could almost count the people on one hand that knew where his parents lived. Even so the question slithered through his mind like a snake in the reeds; why Abigail? She was but a teenage girl. What could a psychopath want with a teenage girl? Sherlock could have thought of one million ideas but what if it was to get his attention? A name cropped up in his head; a deeply buried name that Mycroft had been tossing around a lot lately.

_Moriarty._

Despite how improbable it seemed, he wondered, if he were alive like Mycroft said he was, why would he come out and play now, of all times?

The frightened scream led him to a clearing. Enveloped in the black silhouettes of trees and scraggly branches, he feet stomped in circles on damp floor of leaves and dirt. Suddenly in the moonlight, he saw something peculiar. A manila brown envelope decorated with a plainly painted brick house, so out of place, almost comical against the grimness of the forest. He wasn't fooled; he knew him all too well.Sherlock picked it up and saw the red seal. Headmitted to himself now that he sometimes had nightmares about it although he never let on. Jim Moriarty was not dead. How was he not dead? How had he come back to life? Sherlock opened the envelope with his dry tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, half from desperation and worry and half from something else.

_Who's afraid of the big bad wolf?_

Mycroft had been right. Moriarty was back_._

Sherlock stifled the urge to roll his eyes. He never quite learned to like riddles, despite his biggest enemy only working in them - and of course, John's riddle games only left him frustrated.

John. He had to tell John Watson about this because he would be the only one who could help. He dialed John's number faster than any other and the phone began to ring.

"Sherlock?"

"Vatican cameos." Sherlock told him and he could tell John would have rolled his eyes at how dramatic he sounded but this was important.

"Where are you?" John asked in all seriousness.

"At my parents' house," This gained a laugh from the other end.

"At your parents' house... Christ, Sherlock, really?"

"Moriarty took Abigail," that was when the phone was hung up. _How rude_, Sherlock thought as he hung up his phone. He heard footsteps and by the walking pace, it could only be Molly; the only person shorter than Molly at the house would have been Abigail and she wasn't there.

"Sherlock, what are you doing out here? Where's Abby?" Sherlock didn't respond. Instead, he stood frozen in his position, reading over Moriarty's riddle. He recognised the fairytale but what he couldn't quite work out was why? In Grimm's, which the psychopath had sworn by, Red killed the wolf, not the other way around.

Molly looked around, expecting to see Abigail, probably thinking it was some sort of cruel joke that she was playing on her. "Sherlock?" Sherlock still said nothing.

"Where. Is. My. Daughter. Sherlock Holmes?" She enunciated each word venomously to evoke a response out of him but he still remained in his place.

Storming off, Molly went to find clues as to where her daughter might be. She scurried the ground, searching behind every branch, every tree that her eyes would allow her in the constraints of the moonlight. Abigail would never have wandered completely into the darkness because she was smart. She knew that if she did, she wouldn't find her way back until she could see again. Molly's heart began to quicken, with dread, fear and worry growing like an infectious weed darting through her bloodstream. What if something terrible had happened to her? What if somebody had taken her? What if they were going to kill her? The very thought brought tears to Molly's panic stricken eyes as she began to run now, no longer scanning the ground for her daughter's feet, but rather the trees for her coat. She had been angry at Abigail earlier that day for not wanting to go to the Holmes' house but all of that would be forgiven if her little girl would just come back to her.

Sherlock stared at the piece of paper, reading the words and waiting for John. He was the one for riddles. He could get himself out of the stickiest of situations with riddles. It was then that something came rushing into his view rapid.  
"Sherlock bloody Holmes! This isn't funny! If you don't tell me where my daughter is right now..." Molly was cut off mid yell by the sound of further footsteps on the ground. John Watson emerged from the shadows and into where the moon hit the ground.  
"John," Sherlock began instantly even before John caught up to him. "Moriarty has Abigail Hooper," Sherlock changed her last name to Hooper to distance himself from the case. It was something Mycroft had advised him to do when she was born. It reminded Sherlock not to get involved. "He left this. You're good with riddles." Sherlock handed him the paper and then John deciphered it in a little longer than what Sherlock had taken.  
"Red Riding Hood," he muttered.  
"Exactly. What do you say, John? Up for a case?" John stared at him incredulously. Sherlock could read him like a book; he was taken aback by the fact that he was taking this as a 'game' rather than the fact that his daughter had been kidnapped by the most dangerous man in London - and, by extension, the world but there was something in his eyes. Sherlock had seen that look before. John Watson felt the adrenaline course through him like a fast flowing river, the familiar sensation that regulated John, that kept him, in a way, sane. He nodded grimly, while waiting for Sherlock to say his trademark line.  
"Well, Watson-" Sherlock whispered, unaware of how agonized Molly looked beside him, his brilliant mind conjuring ideas beyond counting. "The game is on." But this was not a game at all. Sherlock had to find Abigail, if not for her own sake, than for his. _Don't get involved,_ his brother had told him, but it was too late. Sherlock Holmes had been involved in Abigail Holmes' life from the first day he met her. He was not about to let that go. He had only ever made two vows in his life – one to watch out for John, Mary and Agatha and one to protect his daughter. He was not a person to break vows.

With a heavy heart but a brilliant poker face, Sherlock Holmes turned back towards the car.


	12. Chapter 12

It was cold wherever Abigail Holmes was. It was cold and dark. She could see nothing. Her coat was still on her and her hands were bound behind her back.  
"Oh, Abigail," said a familiar voice, "Didn't your mother ever tell you not to talk to strangers?"  
"Why are you doing this?" Abigail couldn't stop her voice from shaking. Despite her father's inherited stubbornness, her voice always betrayed her. It was just the one thing she couldn't master. It wasn't like the person would tell her why they were doing it but it just brought Abigail some time to feel around for where she was. She could feel a cold floor, like the bottom of a prison cell, made from large black tiles. Her hands were bound with rope; she could feel them tight around her wrists. It was a reef knot. They were easy to get out of. Why would her captor tie a reef knot? They knew who she was. They knew what she was capable of.

When the person, who never missed a trick, realised that Abigail had broken her bounds, Abigail only saw their bright white teeth in a cruel smile before the fluorescent light turned on and temporarily blinded her vision before it fully came into focus.  
"Now, I want you to tell me all about your relationship with Sherlock Holmes."

Molly Hooper was frantic to say the least. She went over to Mary and John's and recruited Agatha to help her put out missing person posters and she phoned Mycroft and Lestrade six times in one day, just to know that they would follow up and do their duties – Mycroft to his niece and Lestrade to his friends. Mycroft had always hated the fact that Abigail was his blood. It wasn't that he resented her; she was quite neat, when she wasn't trying to be clever like her father but he would never let on. That was something the Holmes gentlemen never did.

That night, Molly lay awake in her bed, tossing and turning, thinking about how alone, isolated and cold her daughter must be. It was the worst feeling in the world. She felt like she had failed as a mother, as her guardian. When she closed her eyes, all she could see was someone presenting her with a mutilated body of a teenage girl with her own brown hair and her father's face structure; the lifeless Abigail Holmes cold and blue on a slab in the morgue like it was just another body. She got up and tried to call Abigail's mobile again but it went straight to voicemail. Molly said nothing. She knew it would be no use. She just wanted to hear her daughter's voice again, even though she had been gone for a day. If it were under any circumstances but this, the kind she really feared, it would have been fine because Molly knew she would be alright. Now, she had lost that certainty and Sherlock wasn't helping.

"Have you left that sofa?" Molly demanded, storming into the living room, where, it seemed, Sherlock had been lying on the sofa for the last twenty-seven hours.  
"Yes," Sherlock told her but he did not move. He laid on his back, with his hands together, his fingertips touching his chin as if he were praying. He did that a lot.

Suddenly, an idea struck him. He had to go and get John and they had to follow it up. Rushing into his room, Sherlock picked up his coat and his scarf in a hurry, without taking any notice that the scarf was now a lilac shade as opposed to the dark plum.  
_Baker St. Now. – SH_

Even though neither of them lived there anymore, it was just a lot easier for them to think there. They didn't know why, nor did they question it. Maybe it was a form of nostalgia. Baker Street had changed for them. It had grown more mature, just like they had. Mrs. Hudson, in all her flighty glory, made them tea, while murmuring away at how sad it was that Abigail was missing. Thanks to Molly's irrationality, with putting signs and posters everywhere, nearly the whole of London knew that Abigail was missing and that would not help them weed out the perpetrator. The two sat, in the dust riddled flat, in their old chairs and did not say a word for quite some time.  
"Lilac was never really my colour," Sherlock said, finally breaking the heavy silence that Baker Street always brought on.  
"I remember you telling me how much you hated it," John said in return but Sherlock could feel something in the air. John had been arguing with Mary or Agatha. There was something about him today. His voice was strained and Sherlock thought him a prickly hedgehog that balled up when he was stressed; when his manner became short and his posture became tired.  
"John, I need you to concentrate and you won't do that unless you have sorted your domestic with Mary," Sherlock deduced it was Mary instead of Agatha because Agatha had been a surrogate daughter for Molly while Molly was searching for Abigail. John shook his head and then Sherlock told him his idea.  
"Jim Moriarty is going for a Red Riding Hood effect, yes?" John nodded, wondering where Sherlock was going with this. "That means he _wants _to get caught." Sherlock was being cryptic again. John hated it when he got like this.  
"Then where do we start looking?" Sherlock pondered that question for a moment.  
"In all of the wolf dens we can think of." Ideas began to boil in Sherlock's head, like a cauldron on a flame. He stuck his notes on the wall that he had constructed when Molly thought he was still dormant on the couch. Drawing string to them, there were six locations where they might be. None of them were conspicuous but Moriarty loved his little games and this was a particularly sick one indeed, but it was no match for him.


	13. Chapter 13

It was almost like old times; Sherlock and John catching cabs everywhere, frantically chasing after super villains but there was something different this time.  
"Sherlock, why do you wear that scarf?" John asked, breaking the heavy silence that had befallen them as they drove to the first of many dens. Sherlock just shrugged,  
"It does the same job as all of my other ones," he said somewhat dismissively before abruptly telling the cab to stop. The reason he didn't have a different scarf was because he was simply too lazy to buy a new one - also, it was there in his time of need; much like his friend John Watson.

It was very easy to miss. A small tavern seemingly in the middle of nowhere stood and there was simply one car there. Sherlock had suspected this place mostly because Moriarty loved to exaggerate the importance of trivial places and because he knew London better than the back of his hand, he would go to places only Sherlock would think of. Sure, there were heaps of places like this he could go but Sherlock had a feeling about this one. This had to lead them to her.

"What are we doing here?" John asked, clearly not noting anything suspicious or distinctly Moriarty. Sherlock saw Moriarty all over this small establishment. The bartender was wearing a spider tie, eyeing Sherlock and John as they walked in and the only customer was twisting a red apple that almost looked painted a blood red on the bar. When Sherlock approached, the customer stood up from his stool and left his apple and a small piece of folded parchment on his way out. This is was so painfully obvious that even Scotland Yard could get somewhere. As the main left, he began to sing a tune with a slight Russian accent.

"The incy wincy spider climbed up the water spout, down came the rain and washed the spider out then out came the sun and dried and the incy wincy spider climbed up the spout again." With that, the man got into his car and drove away.

"Moriarty loves theatrics," John whispered sourly, echoing Sherlock's thoughts. "What does the parchment say?" Sherlock moved the apple to one side and opened the small piece of paper.

_Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all? _

This was inconsistent with Moriarty's initial design. Snow White and Red Riding Hood were very different fairytales. One had the main antagonist was as not even human and the other was where the antagonist was a very powerful woman. Instead of talking, he handed to his friend and stared into the bartender's tie to think. Why would Moriarty want to know who the 'fairest of them all' was? It didn't make sense. Clearly, Moriarty had his daughter and the story went, based on the slim knowledge he had on the matter, that the queen had someone rip the heart out of the young girl but the man was overtaken by sentiment and got her the heart of an animal instead. So, he intended to rip her heart out, that was clear but the person who would be overtaken by sentiment would be Sherlock Holmes. That was when it hit Sherlock. The man who deceived the queen had his heart ripped from his chest as well before trying to pursue Snow White. He had to die to save his daughter if that was the case. He had exhausted his brother's resources the last time he needed to disappear. Faking his death twice was a little tedious so he would find another way. Abigail was clever; she knew how to calculate.

"Sherlock," John proceeded to explain what Sherlock had just ruled out in his head but Sherlock did not let on because John had some extra insight he had missed. John was good with riddles like this. Maybe it was because he was more romantic than Sherlock. "Moriarty is going to poison her," Sherlock couldn't tell exactly where John was going with this. Fairytales had never really been his area. "We have three days before that happens. Either we find the wolf's den in three days or Abigail will..." John shook his head. He didn't want to think about it. Sherlock considered John's input but not for very long. Abigail knew what poison was - how to identify it. But that, in no way, lessened the urgency of his search.

"You're right, John," Sherlock lied as he folded the parchment and put it in his pocket. John looked bewildered at Sherlock's lie but Sherlock ignored it. This case, minus the personal touch, was not unlike a case he had seen. before; there were two children who were kidnapped...

As Sherlock was mentally reminiscing over that case, it came to him. Moriarty was using Abigail to deflect the attention from his masterplan. Moriarty's main objective was to kill Sherlock Holmes, despite wanting to make Sherlock dance for his amusement. A psychopath, James Moriarty was, but he was certainly not unintelligent and he knew, now that Sherlock had broken down his emotional walls, that Abigail would be his breaking point. It wasn't John anymore in Moriarty's eyes and that, in a way, relieved Sherlock very much. John had been the man to teach him humility and that was important.  
"Sherlock," John began, "Let's go." The note seemed to burn in Sherlock's pocket. How could such a small piece of parchment be so heavy? The connotations of the fairytale echoed in his mind as he thought of possibilities. Perhaps, Moriarty was not working alone and if that was the case, then who might be his accomplice? Who hated Sherlock so much that she - it had to be a she obviously - wanted to see him break?

John led the way back out to the cab, that had very generously waited for them as they had no other form of transport in the deepest part of London. On the way out, Sherlock hummed to himself.

_The incy wincy spider climbed up the water spout, down came the rain and washed the spider out then out came the sun and dried and the incy wincy spider climbed up the spout again_.


	14. Chapter 14

Abigail Holmes thought it suspicious that the person, whatever their name was, was not torturing her. That was generally the best way to get honest information out of a person from her father's stories. She didn't want to be tortured obviously but that meant they needed her alive. So, they were willing to make a trade of sorts but the real question remained; why? If the perpetrator had been Jim Moriarty, she would have understood but it wasn't him.

"Why are you doing this?" Abigail asked at the table, staring the one who must have been 'the Big Bad Wolf' directly in the eyes. Her voice no longer shook. She had been there for nearly a week now, repeating the same routine; sitting at a table, answering moderately obscured questions about her father and barely eating because Abigail knew not to trust the food they gave her. She only ate the food she watched them eat previously. It was the only way she could ensure it wasn't laced with poison. The dark brown eyes of the wolf were cruel.

"It's for your own good. Now, if you don't tell us the information we require, we will see to it that that will be your last mistake." We? There was a new detail. There was more than one person doing this. That was a game changer. Instead of letting on she observed this new information, she let out a cruel laugh.

"You can't kill me. I'm your last hope at getting to Sherlock Holmes."

The song echoed in Sherlock's head, even in the Russian accent the man had sung it in, as he thought of possible places. Where would be the place to hide a child without suspicion? Hotels were a likely choice and Moriarty's female companion would do well blending in, whoever she was unless, of course, she was Irene Adler. She wouldn't blend anywhere; she was too confident in herself. It created a powerful presence that demanded attention when she walked into the room.

"Where would Moriarty go?" John wondered aloud before the taxi came to a complete stop outside Baker Street. Sherlock was two steps ahead of John, already ruling out further places. It wasn't like Moriarty to be obvious and take her somewhere hostile, at least not if it were he that had taken her. A hotel was, again, looking like a likely option. That meant he could try something new. Abigail Holmes was a brilliant hacker and she had a smart phone. Why he had not thought of this initially baffled him for a moment. Moriarty was a brilliant psychopath; he always wanted to get caught, even if it was someone else who took the blame. He had told John what seemed like so long ago now, g_enius needs an audience_ and despite his many, many faults, Moriarty was a genius. He took out his phone and went into his inbox as if on instinct. There, as one of four threads in his inbox, was a name he did not expect. _The Woman. _That was strange. He didn't remember texting her, or hearing her text alert. He opened the thread and saw he had replied. His daughter had been meddling. Of course she had. He couldn't help a small smile from creeping up onto his lips. She had been very cunning with this secret of hers, distracting him with deductions about both himself and her, which had proved to be exactly the same apparently. Sherlock had denied her deductions. They couldn't be true of him. He didn't want to feel because he knew that would cloud his judgment, not because he didn't want to hurt again. At least, that was what he believed. He connected his phone to the internet and used Abigail's login for 'Find My Phone'. She was too similar to him. He had hacked her phone only days before she had decided to snoop around his. Her phone had come up with 221B Baker Street. It was early days and Sherlock was willing to play Moriarty's game and so, to the flat they would go.

The two of them got out of the car and Sherlock walked speedily up the stairs, John right behind him. Sunshine gleamed through the window of the dusty room as Sherlock looked around for one of Moriarty's envelopes. He would not have planted Abigail's phone here. He needed to get caught; he needed Sherlock to find him and he would do that elaborately and obscurely. Suddenly, they heard a bang coming from Sherlock's old room, which he still occupied from time to time. John opened the door, his hand on his gun in his pocket just in case but when he opened it, he saw someone he did not expect.  
"Molly, Agatha; what are you guys doing here?" Molly's eyes darted to Sherlock over John's shoulder and then back to where she was looking. She didn't want to meet his eyes.  
"The same thing you are. We followed the GPS on Abigail's phone." John looked stunned.  
"Does everybody know that girl's password?"  
"54522," Everyone replied almost instantly. John rolled his eyes and just went with it,  
"So, have you found anything or not?" Agatha shook her head but Molly bit her lip nervously.  
"Sherlock," she began, "I found some DNA and it matches Mycroft. He hasn't been here lately, has he?" Now that she mentioned it, Sherlock realised he hadn't spoken to his brother since that day they were in Buckingham Palace, despite him being over at their parents' house a number of long days ago.  
"Why would Mycroft come to Baker Street?" Sherlock wondered aloud, trying to piece some of the puzzle together.  
"Maybe he was looking for you? Your brother is known for face to face contact." John sounded bitter as he spoke; maybe because it was about the meetings so many years previously in the Diogenes club.  
"Mycroft would have been here searching for an item." It hit Sherlock like lightning as he spoke. He was looking for Sherlock Holmes' ivory box.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock recalled the Culverton Smith case as a wave of something like panic washed over him. The Culverton Smith case was a case he had solved with the help of Molly. Staring at the empty space where the box that had become so important to him once was, he blinked away what emotions it conjured.  
"He didn't take what he was looking for," Sherlock murmured, remembering the intricate pattern of black and white ivory box, with the sliding lid. "Why would he take it?" Molly peered over at him to read his face and even though he couldn't see her, Sherlock knew Molly was panicked too. The Culverton Smith case was an interesting one - the last case before Sherlock left London. It had been years but Sherlock still remembered it clearer than anything.

It was a bitterly cold day and the winds of Baker Street howled as children held onto their ear hats for dear life and Sherlock Holmes was in his bed. He had been in his bed for three days.

He extended his arms, almost to the point of exertion. He needed one more; one more case before he left London and it couldn't be with John. Molly was the only one he could trust now that the world thought he was dead. He composed a message: _I'm ill. Come to Baker Street? SH._ He figured playing on her sympathy and affection for him would be the best way of getting her help.

Sure enough, Molly had delivered. She rushed over, went upstairs and went into the bedroom.  
"Molly," Sherlock mustered something of a brave smile, injecting as much of his illness into his voice. He had to sound convincing; if Molly found out he was faking his illness, the whole operation would be rendered useless. Molly Hooper wasn't really known for her theatrics but she was excellent at keeping a secret; she had, after all, helped him fake his suicide. It was better to keep her in the dark. Just this once.  
"I came over as soon as I could; what's happened? What do you need?" Sherlock propped himself up so he could see Molly's face. She eyed him apprehensively as he swallowed hard.  
"I need you to go and get help..." He winced a little and put his hand on his hard, clenching at it to make it more believable.  
"And you couldn't just call an ambulance?" Sherlock shook his head imploringly, not able to resist a touch of drama.  
"Doctors won't be any good," Sherlock reasoned, "We need a planter... A gardener. The man I need... He can only be reached at six..." He was marvellous at playing the dying detective.  
"What's his number? I can call him if you like...?" Molly looked at the time. There was still a few minutes. Looking around for any plants that could have poisoned him, Molly began shifting items and did not appear to hear when Sherlock told her not to touch his things. She came across an elegant black and white ivory box with a sliding lid and before she touched it, Sherlock began to panic.  
"Molly do not touch my things," he almost said in his regular voice; a lapse in his illness. Instantly, she stepped away from it and looked at the digital clock on his bedside table. Rolling her eyes, Molly turned towards the door.  
"I'm making a phone call." As she was about to turn the handle, Sherlock leapt out of his bed and closed the door. He looked at her dead in the eyes.  
"Please will you do this for me?" Molly nodded and tried to check his temperature but he backed away.  
"I'm highly contagious... I..." Sherlock looked around almost deliriously as he climbed back into his bed. Molly sat down and stared at Sherlock and looked out of the corner of her eye towards the digital clock.  
"Sherlock, why did you have to...?" He wanted to tell Molly why it was so important that he had to fake his death and why it was so important to keep John in the dark but he couldn't. He had a network to dismantle.  
"His name is Culverton Smith and this is his address." Sherlock handed her a piece of paper. He coughed fiercely. Molly nodded. "He doesn't have a phone; landline or mobile." He struggled to get the words out, which was a form of imploring her to do as he said. Snatching the paper up, she went to walk out the door. "Molly... He doesn't particularly like me because I told him he killed his nephew by inflicting the same disease that I have..." Sherlock's eyelids began to droop and Molly went out in a hurry. A few moments later, he text her and told her that it would be best if Smith and herself arrived separately. It would suit his purposes better.  
"He said he would, after some persuasion." Molly added that last bit darkly. "He's on his way." Sherlock smiled slightly, turning over to reapply the Vaseline to make him look more feverish.  
"Molly, would you mind hiding in my closet? I don't want you to see him..." he shook his head and then laughed looking frantically across the room.

When Culverton Smith arrived, he saw Sherlock in his bed. Eyeing Sherlock with his menacing grey eyes, Smith smiled cruelly.  
"Oh, my dear Mr. Holmes. It _is_ a shame you have come down that illness. My dear old nephew..."  
"Of whom you killed," Sherlock coughed as he made his eyelids droop.  
"Yes. Victor Smith; tragic death that one; same illness as you it would seem." He turned around to pocket the small ivory box, "A simple spring, would you believe? I killed him with just a simple spring and there was not a thing he could do. Much like you, Mr. Holmes." The small man sat down and opted to watch Sherlock die. Sherlock hit send on his phone under the blanket, instructing Inspector Morton, the man who stood in for Lestrade while he was suspended, to enter and arrest the man.  
"The confessed murderer of Victor Smith," Sherlock smiled, sitting up from his bed.  
"You have no evidence," Smith arrogantly pointed out, spitting on the floor almost as Inspector Morton took him by the wrists and restrained him, "No witnesses. This won't hold up in court." Sherlock couldn't help smiling when he said that.  
"Molly, we're finished here," Molly Hooper emerged from the closet and after the formalities, Morton took him away.

Sherlock put the ivory box back on his chest of drawers.  
"Sherlock..." Molly began, "Why couldn't you just...?" Molly shook the thought off. Sherlock shook his head and guessed the direction of her thoughts but she wasn't upset. Why wasn't she upset that he had lied to her?  
"You had to believe I was terminally ill..." Sherlock felt the need to explain himself but Molly shook her head.  
"I wondered why your home smelt of Belladonna. The beeswax was a nice touch." Sherlock had to blink. "I know malingers when I see them, Sherlock." She was a pathologist; of course she knew. She always knew. He wanted to thank her but he didn't know how.

He closed the door and walked over to his box again.  
"Molly," he wiped his face with the scarf that was draped across the drawers, "This box... It's made from the finest ivory; only attainable in the depths of Asia..." His fingers traced the top of the box before he took it in his hands. He offered to her and she took it in both of her hands carefully. "I would like you to have it," she looked at him quizzically, trying to read the expression in his eyes. "Keep it safe for me." She nodded. Although Sherlock knew that this did not even come close to the thanks that Molly deserved for everything she had done, it was a start. She was one of the most important people in his life and he hoped she always would be. "Thank you." She simply nodded.  
"Is this goodbye then?" Sherlock nodded solemnly.  
"My flight leaves in two hours."  
"Why can't you just tell me where you're going...?" Sherlock shook his head.  
"Goodbye, Molly Hooper." He kissed her on the lips before he slipped out of Baker Street for god only knew how long and into one of his brother's black cars.

That box meant the world to Sherlock. It was a symbol of his friendship with Molly, a symbol of just how much he cared for her and how she was the one who counted; the one who would do anything for him, including lying to people for two years even though it hurt them and it went against everything in her kind nature. So, why would Mycroft take it? The Smith case was resolved. He didn't need the evidence anymore. He called his brother but it went straight to voicemail. Something was not right with this equation. It didn't add up. Why would Moriarty and his companion lead them to Mycroft? The only reason Sherlock could think of was because Moriarty needed time. Time for what, Sherlock didn't know, but he intended to find out.


	16. Chapter 16

Abigail Holmes had been spending most of her time in her mind palace, unconcerned with means of escape. Instead she lay on a bed trying to figure out who was doing this and why. The bed was comfortable now that the brown eyed woman took her to a hotel but even their sudden change in location was not the problem here.

Around a small oak table, Abigail sat with her suspects; Mary Watson, Irene Adler and Mycroft Holmes. They all smiled at her, waiting for her to speak.

"Mary. Clever Mary Watson," She looked into her best friend's mother's eyes. "Why would you want Sherlock Holmes to break?" Abigail considered all of the options and what was important to Mary the intelligence agent? Abigail figured she was something like that because she did marry John, an adrenaline junkie, whose best friend was a 'sociopath', so it wasn't exactly a giant leap to know that despite her domesticated exterior she loved danger herself. John was important to her and so was Agatha. She would do anything to keep them safe, keep them from hurting. Unless there was something threatening them and she was being blackmailed to take down Sherlock. That being said, Sherlock meant too much to John for Mary to do anything to him. Words appeared around Mary; jealous? Family under threat...? Abigail shook her head. The very notion was pathetic. She was grasping at straws. Mary got up from the table, smiled at Abigail and disappeared out of the small chamber in the Inveraray Castle. The Woman; with her shining blue eyes and her raven black hair, what could she possibly want with Sherlock? There was a number of things. Abigail had discovered upon meeting Irene that she would do anything that meant there was something in it for her. It was likely someone offered her a large sum of money because there was no immediate gain in breaking Sherlock Holmes. She was the woman who Sherlock loved. He wasn't in love with her; it was the fact that she surprised him and she wasn't as easy to figure out like everyone else. It wouldn't be hard to break him when he had that much respect for her. Who would be paying her? That was a question for later. Irene froze and went black and white; that was what happened to Abigail's suspended thoughts. There was only one suspect left.

"Uncle Mycroft," She began. The man stared at her disapprovingly, as he normally did. This man, this particular man, really did not like Sherlock, or rather did not like Sherlock being distracted and that's all she and Molly were; distractions. Surely that wouldn't be enough to warrant a kidnapping. It was one thing to steal his most valued possession - the ivory box that sat on the mantelpiece - but to kidnap his daughter? It looked unlikely but only a select few who knew about the box; Molly, Mycroft, Mary, John and Abigail herself. Since Mary, John and Molly were out of the equation that only left Mycroft. He did leave the party early and he did know exactly where the box was located... The more evidence Abigail interpreted, the more probable it was becoming. She would deal with this in one of the only ways she knew how. Manipulation.

Opening her eyes, it took Abigail a few seconds to come to grips with her new location. The hotel looked like the inside of Buckingham Palace, with its golden chandeliers, cream coloured wallpaper and regal paintings.

"The incy wincy spider climbed up the water spout..." The brown eyed woman chanted absently in all her Irish glory before her phone began to ring. She argued with the person on the other end, reminding them of the sum of money they promised. There was silence for a moment before the door opened. If Abigail wore the coat Sherlock had made her pack, her gun would have come in handy. She never let on that she carried a gun; even when Sherlock lined her coat with cigarettes, he had no idea - or, if he did, he certainly didn't say anything. The person who entered the room hung up his phone and looked down at her. Mycroft. There was no need to investigate any more.

"Myc..." She whispered pouring as much hurt into her voice as possible, even though she knew Mycroft was a sociopath. She had no idea if that woman was.

"Janine, I would invite you to please leave the room; I must have words with our guest." Mycroft held out £100 and the woman named Janine took it gladly as she exited the room.

"Why are you doing this?" Abigail asked in all seriousness, sparing him the betrayed family member routine.

"To simply test our good Sherlock Holmes." She rolled her eyes at his diplomacy.

"Nope," she replied, "Why are you doing this?" Mycroft simply took a seat at the small table, leaning his umbrella against the table leg.

"You are a distraction and..." Abigail wasn't buying it.

"Try again. Try something along the lines of James Moriarty." Mycroft grew incredulous. "What did he threaten this time?" Abigail put the pieces together as she spoke. Of course Moriarty was the mastermind - but the question remained. What was Mycroft's motive? Irene's would be money or even government protection, Janine's was obviously money but what was Mycroft's? He did not need money and he had no-one he really cared about... Then it hit her. She was missing the obvious; Mycroft's first priority was the security of the British nation and James Moriarty was the most dangerous criminal mind the world had ever seen. Of course he would have to comply.

"Abigail Hooper, this is a dangerous game you are playing." He told her. He never treated her like a Holmes; except when she blackmailed him into telling her Sherlock's life story and even then he was guarded. But there was certainly nothing wrong with being a Hooper. Her mother was the cleverest woman she knew - apart from her grandmother.

"Mycroft," She implored, making Mycroft flinch almost. She could do the death glare almost as good as her mother. She had needed it a lot lately. "Tell. Me." Abigail stood up and began pacing in the kitchen. "I've got all day." She told him, pocketing a steak knife.

"Moriarty and I had a deal. I give him Sherlock and he returns a laptop upon which the security of the United Kingdom." Suddenly, Mycroft felt a cold sharp sensation at the side of his neck. "Mycroft. This, right here, is a main artery and it runs all the way from your neck to your cold heart. You're a smart man; you know what happens when arteries are severed. Do I have your attention?" Mycroft simply laughed.

"You couldn't do that, Miss. Hooper." She pressed the knife harder and drew a tiny bit of blood. "Now, _Uncle_ Mycroft. Who else is helping Moriarty?" She didn't anticipate this to escalate to death threats; it wasn't her style but Mycroft was a sociopath. He valued his life above everything.

"There are seven of us," he told her calmly. "Janine and I are the only ones you need to concern yourself with."

"Who are the others?" Abigail could feel her patience wearing thin as she yelled at her uncle.

"You tell me." Abigail pocketed the knife again and let Mycroft be. "Good evening." With that, Mycroft picked up his umbrella and walked out of the room. There were seven. Abigail thought back to the fairytales her mother read to her as a child. There was one evil queen and seven people who looked after a princess. These seven people were trying to keep the princess alive. Snow White. Abigail racked her brain for five other suspects. Irene was definitely back in this fold. It was time she had dinner with The Woman.


End file.
